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2:15 AM, Scramble Crossing.
The light of Kanade’s phone cast a waxy blue sheen onto her face—obscured, in large part, by a thick hood and black mask.
As she loitered about, errant gusts of air blew harshly against Kanade's back and she shivered on instinct—the girl’s silhouette wobbling against the dirty-gray concrete on the ground.
With a quick ping! , a blue text bubble popped up on the face of Kanade’s homepage.
Yuki: ETA 2 minutes.
Kanade glanced about warily and shoved her device into the baggy folds of her hoodie, a pale finger reaching out and hooking the thin fabric of her face mask further over her nose.
Kanade wanted to stay—discreet, for reasons that involved bills to pay, night-shift police, and—most damningly of all—the Ziploc-bag of weed gummies that sat in the pocket of her jeans.
She wasn't stupid.
Google it anywhere— ”as of now, cannabis is not legal in Japan for medical or recreational use. Japan has maintained and strengthened its laws against cannabis,” et cetera et cetera, what she was doing was definitely punishable in a court of law with, like, 7 years of jail time or a fine of JPY 2 billion.
Unfortunately, even off a bare-bones diet of water, ramen, and I’ll eat laters , there's only so much money one can make off of free-lance composing when there's bills to pay, so Kanade makes do with what she has.
And what she has is a seedy connection that brings her unmarked Amazon packages, Tuesday 3:10 AM on the dot every week, filled to the brim with substances not fit for legal consumption.
Even with the constant looming threat of prison, asset forfeiture, and a life on the streets, Kanade’s comfort was that, despite her more unconventional job choice, she had some surprisingly high-profile customers in her pocket—sons and daughters of high-ranking officials who saw it more ideal to keep their only supplier in Shibuya prison-free and able to do business with.
One of these people—the poised, elegant, unearthly daughter of Minister Asahina set to become the next great political demon of Japan—was ETA less than 1 minute from her location, driving fast in her mother’s matte-gray performance sports car.
Eat the rich, Kanade mused with a faint hint of amusement, or let the rich eat—and charge them a high interest rate for their troubles.
The roar of a 400-horsepower Porsche and the glare of bright yellow headlights raced down the intersection near where Kanade stood, soon rumbling and rolling slowly to a stop near the girl’s place on the concrete.
The electric door slid up, and with a seamless whirr and flash of movement, a girl—clad in a nightgown worth more than Kanade’s composing equipment, house, and soul—stepped out, holding a hand to her mouth to muffle a quiet yawn.
“K?”
Yuki’s eyes opened into small slits, cold purple and snake-like against the night sky.
Kanade pulled out the bag of weed and proffered it to her.
Yuki took it carefully with a nod and thrust it into the pockets of her nightgown, stopping for a moment to cast a terse glance at the chauffeur—evidently uncaring of the girl’s activities—and swiveling her head back to Kanade’s.
“How much do I owe you?”
“You know. No discounts or markups—same as usual.”
Yuki let out a stilted laugh and inclined her head. “Alright. It’s been—”
Ping! went Kanade’s phone.
“—Transferred to your account already.”
The corners of Kanade’s mouth tilted up into a slight smile.
“Thank you for your patronage.”
“Much obliged. Same time next week?”
“Yeah. Take care.”
Yuki entered the passenger seat of her Porsche—the door flying closed behind her—and the car sped off into the night.
Kanade let out a sigh.
With a jerk, she twisted her body around and receded into the shadows of Shibuya Crossing.
____________
“Do you consume any of your products?”
“No, I don't.”
“Huh.”
A small lapse of silence fell over the two—Mafuyu munching her edibles thoughtfully while Kanade stood awkwardly in front of her, hoping that she would go away a little faster so Kanade could get home and take a nice long nap.
“Why not?”
Kanade’s shoulders lifted up and down in the semblance of a slight shrug. “Not my taste, I guess.”
Yuki let out a soft laugh. “Not your taste, but you sell them?”
“Hospital bills are a bitch.”
Yuki fell silent at the reply—still chewing at her gummies—leaving Kanade to wonder in equal parts did I overshare and did she go over the dosage limit?
“Ah—I think you’ve eaten too much tonight.”
Kanade placed her hand over the Ziploc bag—stopping Yuki from taking any more.
The purple-haired girl let out a long sigh and flickered her eyes over to Kanade’s.
“My mom says that she'll lower medical costs if she gets voted Prime Minister.”
A laugh, sardonic and unfeeling, clawed its way out Kanade’s throat. She lifted her hands up from the weed bag. “Yeah, and she'll hike up the rent after as retaliation.”
The words floated eerily up and away from the two, echoing lamely down the deserted streets.
Yuki turned her head away. “I can't come next week—voting’s taking place then.”
“That explains the larger quantity of edibles.”
“Yeah.”
A whirr , a flash of movement, and the car was speeding away.
Kanade stared after it—the next corrupt politician of Japan, shoving weed down her throat with her parents none the wiser, in the passenger seat next to a chauffeur who honestly couldn't care whether she lived or died.
If Asahina becomes Prime Minister, wouldn't they have to pack up and move to Chiyado for their work?
Something heavy dropped to the pit of her stomach.
With a slight stumble, Kanade wheeled about and walked away.
____________
It didn't even take a minute for Yuki to roll up, hop out the car, unceremoniously grab the bag of gummies out of Kanade’s hoodie—a surprised squeak coming out of the shorter girl—before the edibles were popped in her mouth, two at a time like candy.
After a moment, Kanade recovered just enough the touch’s shock to quietly inform Mafuyu that no, the serving size was 10 gummies, and what she was consuming was way over the limit so she should stop unless she wants to get rushed to the hospital and cause a scandal.
That, ironically, is what finally gets Mafuyu to relinquish the bag— not the fear for her own safety, but the fear of the public’s eye—and her mother's, by proxy.
Heavy heaves of breath came out of the purple-haired girl’s lungs, each one more staggered than the last.
An awkward tension fell between the two, Kanade choking on the storm clouds that seemed to hover near Yuki and drown her in their showers.
“Are—are you alright?”
Mafuyu looked down at her, the mascara— makeup at night? —lining her eyes perfectly even amongst the tears that threatened to spill from the crook of her brow.
“My mom,” Mafuyu’s voice cracked, “—she didn't win. She wasn't in a good mood after the election.”
Yuki looked away—and Kanade caught the glimpse of a bandage on her cheek, pale against the moonlight.
To be honest, Kanade didn't have much experience with comforting anyone— especially fucked-up daughters of political demons.
But—she vaguely recalled a time in the past, where things were happier and the world a little brighter, where her home was run with music and joy instead of desolation and the heady scent of weed festering away in the garage—when she was unhappy, a hug seemed to make things better, comfort her away from her problems even for a moment.
She awkwardly held her hands out.
“Do you want a hug?”
Yuki stared at the arms.
Has this girl—never had a hug before?
What happened after was a messy tangle of limbs, arms folding over bodies in an odd union that led to Yuki shifting Kanade’s arms under her own to account for the height difference and Kanade hissing in pain as Yuki’s bony elbows dug into her sides.
But a hug it was—some semblance of one, anyways.
After a moment of quiet, Kanade could feel something wet fall onto her back, followed by muffled sobbing.
The weed dealer sighed and leaned into the body of her customer, now so frail and delicate in suffering—rubbing circles into the small of her back as the girl broke down into her arms.
“I’m—I’m sorry,” she choked out, “I just feel—I just feel so stuck. You're the only person I can talk to. It's just—,” Mafuyu hiccuped, “you're nice. Not like the paparazzi who keep knocking on our doors, or the politicians who keep trying to get me to say something out of line so they can use it as an excuse to boot my mother out of ministry, or anyone else.”
“It's alright—let it out.”
“Thanks.”
What in the world happened between Minister Asahina and her daughter, to make her weed dealer—out of everyone in the world—the only possible person she could cry in front of?
When the sobbing slowed and Kanade’s hoodie had saturated all the tears it could, she carefully pulled Mafuyu off her shoulder, grasping her arms with both hands and staring into her eyes.
“Yuki,” she started, “why don't you talk to your mother about this?”
“You know why.”
____________
To be honest, Kanade wasn't really cut out for weed dealing.
She had only picked it up on a whim—more eager to put food on the table then, like, make it her thing —but Kanade’s compositions had started to gain a surprising audience, comments and views blowing up her modest channel whenever she dared click it open (and subsequently, her bank account, though she wasn't the next MrBeast or anything.)
It also helped that her—ah, generous markups on her goods brought in a veritable amount of money that would be enough to fully support her at least for the next few years.
If Kanade set up a Patreon, or something, she could probably have enough cash flow to leave behind the job entirely.
In fact, she already had an exit strategy set up—in the weed-dealing business, she had found a surprisingly enthusiastic friend willing to take her deliveries for her (“more for me, y'know?”) and, by proxy, her seedy connection—allowing Kanade to retire without the fear of getting beat up or killed for not bringing in any profit to the weed gods.
So what was Kanade doing here, loitering about on the same corner of Scramble Crossing at ungodly hours, clutching dubiously-made edibles in her hand?
Following the script, obviously.
Fulfilling the comfort character on the sidelines—because even despite her selfishness, even despite her filthy amounts of wealth, even despite her incredibly fragile mental state—
Kanade wanted to help Yuki.
And if she could do that through giving her some mental relief from the stress of being the next political demon of Japan, then so be it.
Yuki showed up in her familiar car, took Kanade’s goods, and sped off before Kanade could even get a shitty pleasantry out her throat.
She swallowed.
Playing the character on the sidelines—right? You're just support, anyways.
Glad to see—to see she’s doing better now.
We can go back to a transactional relationship.
And yet, she didn't miss the way Yuki’s hands trembled when they grasped hers, nor the eyebags that hung low over the bottom of her lids.
Ping!
Kanade clicked open the screen of the phone.
Yuki: she found out
Yuki: don’t contact me
[Yuki] has blocked you.
The phone slipped from nerveless fingers and with a resounding crack, hit the floor.
____________
It had been three weeks since Kanade last saw Yuki.
Three weeks.
It’s the longest they’ve ever been apart.
Kanade sat in the ruins of her bedroom, distractedly plinking out a melody on her keyboard. Though she tried her best to sound out something close to cohesive, her thoughts would turn to Yuki again, and her fingers would stutter over the keys—slapping a dissonant chord and breaking whatever concentration the poor composer had. Additionally, a pile of paper lay discarded next to her, bearing little scratches and scribbles of poor lyrics never going to see the light of day.
She sighed, staring at the blackened screen of her phone—eyes combing over the little crack in its side, where she had dropped it almost a month ago onto the concrete sidewalk.
Sure, she could replace it—now having the means to do so—but doing so means that she would lose all her contacts.
Lose her.
Kanade swallowed heavily and turned her eyes back to the face of her piano. Time to focus, she chastised herself, I need to write a song before the deadline or I won’t be able to get an MV out in time, damn it why are lyrics so difficult to write—
Bzzt! Bzzt!
With a flash, Kanade leaped out of her seat and scrambled to her device.
[Yuki] is calling…
“What?”
Do—do I pick up?
Kanade thought of the warning she had been given.
Honestly, Yuki’s mother seemed—pretty terrifying, and as a person on the less legal side of the law, she didn’t want to get into any trouble with the woman.
But—Yuki could be there, on the other side.
She could need help.
Kanade sucked in a quiet breath and held it.
1, 2, 3—
Ah, screw it.
She pressed on the green “Accept” button.
“Ahem—Cough, cough—K? Is that you?”
“Yeah, it’s me,” Kanade’s voice shook as she placed the phone to her ear, “are you alright?”
“Can you meet me where we used to go? Ah, quickly?”
A screech came out from Kanade’s phone—something incredibly reminiscent of a car swerving precariously along the road.
“Y-yeah, okay,” she said, already throwing on a loose jacket and heading out the door.
“See you—shit!”
The line went dead.
Kanade ran.
____________
When Kanade appeared at the same spot, a car was already there—not the souped-up sports car with the apathetic driver Yuki usually had, but a pretty inconspicuous black minivan that sat ominously on the curb.
Yuki laid against the side of the car, eyes up and scanning the area. When it caught Kanade’s, she straightened up and hurriedly made her way over to her location and grabbed the sleeves of Kanade’s tracksuit with shaking hands.
“K.”
“Yuki.”
“I ran away.”
Ah, Kanade thought.
“Do you need a place to stay?”
Yuki glanced furtively behind her. “Yeah,” she said—voice cracking slightly in the middle. “We need—need to go now, though. I tried to cover my tracks, but I don’t know if she’s on my trail or not.”
Kanade nodded.
With a gentle hand, she grasped Yuki’s hand and led her away from the minivan, heading deeper into the cityscape.
“That’s alright, I have a spare room open in my house—nothing fancy though, sorry if that’s inconvenient, you can borrow some of my clothes but they might be a bit small, I’ll also need to restock groceries for two because—” Kanade rambled, breaking off only when Yuki stopped shock-still mid-walk, locking the two in place.
“K?”
“Yes?”
“K—why are you helping me? I’m the daughter of a Minister—you could kidnap me and sell me for ransom, or leave me for my mother. We aren’t even friends. Why are you helping me?”
Kanade looked over at her.
Even with the dried tears, even with unkempt hair, even with wild eyes that spoke of a world of pain—she looked ethereal in the moonlight.
I know we’re not friends, but—there’s something about you.
Something I’d like to get to know.
“Are you any good at writing lyrics?”
____________
“Kanade.”
A hand shook the composer’s shoulder slightly—the girl in question slumped over in the seat of her chair, snoring slightly. With a slight gasp, the white-haired girl blinked open her eyes and checked the time— 2:19 AM.
A news article popped up on the face of the computer— Daughter of Minister still missing, Asahina under fire for negligent care— Kanade moved her mouse and tapped the “x” in the top-right corner of the screen.
How ironic.
“What do you think of these lyrics?” A piece of paper was waved to the left of her face.
Kanade leaned over. “Hmm… I like how the ‘zuki’ is repeated over and over again,” she said, brain starting to tick into composer mode, “especially how, if sung close enough, it could sound like ‘suki’---which ties into the main idea of the song.”
Yuki nodded at her. “Thanks.”
Kanade shook her head slightly and turned back to her computer. “Alright, I need to tune the lyrics into the song, then—give me just a moment, and it’ll be tweaked right.”
Yuki’s hands clenched Kanade’s shoulder tighter. “Not today, though—it’s time for bed.”
“Wha—?!”
With a flash, Yuki bundled up the composer into her arms and flung her gently onto the bed, curling up next to her and pulling the blankets over the two.
“Time for bed.”
A lull of silence fell over the two.
“Wait, I need to—ack!”
A pair of arms wrapped around Kanade’s midriff and squeezed—quiet breaths indicating that the girl had, surprisingly, drifted off to sleep.
In the light of Kanade’s monitors, the composer caught a glimpse of her hoodie—the one that Kanade had worn in those fateful meetings with Mafuyu, all those years ago.
She thought of dark nights, tears in the middle of the street, the stench of weed (now long gone from her garage) and broken features—now smoothed over and beginning, ever so slightly, to heal.
A soft smile settled over her features.
“Alright, then—good night, Mafuyu.”